


gaping wound

by d3vmn



Series: Deus ex Machina [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Mystery, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-13 03:02:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13561353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d3vmn/pseuds/d3vmn
Summary: Kei’s acutely aware to which extent Kuroo is a wound in him that refuses to heal. His body aches, his mind resists and his heart refuses to choose.It has proven a daunting task to be a detective who’s dedicated his life to bringing criminals to justice when Kuroo is an ex-lover who has taken it upon himself to kill criminals in the name of that very justice.Same difference, Kuroo has once said. Kei couldn’t agree, so he couldn’t stay either.





	1. Chapter 1

**1.**

The night is a stubborn dark thing interrupted only by neon skyscrapers poking the star-strewn sky. The blur of buildings in his periphery only furthers Kei’s desire to take his helmet off and feel the wind comb his blond curls, but he pushes the thought to the back of his mind where it belongs. Just because he’s off duty, it doesn’t mean he can quit being an officer of law, a homicide detective.

He takes a sharp turn and parks in front of a dingy hotel next to a couple of police cars. If the pavement could bite, it surely would’ve the moment Kei put his feet down. The sirens are quiet but the persistent flickering of red lights roused the neighborhood into state of awareness and curiosity. Kei pretends he doesn’t see heads poking behind the curtains of dimly-lit hotel rooms. He takes off his helmet and follows a trail of policemen greeting him on his way up. The closer he gets to the epicenter of the commotion, the stronger the dread pools in his stomach.

His superior, agent Ushijima, gives him a curt nod of greeting when he stops and stands at the threshold of a hotel room that wafts of blood and alcohol. From the look of it, the room has been completely untouched aside from the mess that’s been made of two dead bodies. 

“Agent Tsukishima.” Ushijima holds his shoulders square and upright, the scene before him no longer fazing him after years of seeing worse.

“Sir.”

“Make this fast.”

“Yes, sir.”

Reiko, the coroner who has mastered the art of calming first-time agents on a gruesome crime scene, is kneeling on the floor, about to tell Kei what he already knows the moment he sees a mouthful of smiling teeth drawn with red permanent marker on the cheeks of both murdered men.

“The Cheshire.”

Ushijima unbuttons the cuff of his sleeve only to button it up again – a nervous habit if Kei’s ever seen one on him. His keen eyes scan the room for what must be the millionth time and come up empty-handed for what must've also been the millionth time. He says, “That’s why we called you in to take a quick look. Nobody knows Cheshire like you do.”

Kei kneels next to the bodies, taking a closer look at the one wearing a fancier suit. The kind of suit that makes it obvious a man like this didn’t frequent hotels like these unless he had no choice.

“He was on the news this morning,” Kei murmurs, making a fast connection in his mind. A connection that has him frowning as he feels the first throb of a headache against his forehead.

Ushijima adds, “All charges were dropped when the key witness disappeared.” 

_Murdered_ is the word that hangs in the air but neither says it out loud.

“It’s hard to tell who the real bad guy is here.” It’s a remark that Ushijima doesn’t usually make so Kei gives him his full attention, pulling himself up to his full height.

“Cheshire does what Cheshire thinks is right,” Kei says, mimicking the zone an overzealous news reporter, and a fan, would use.

“And what do  _you_  think, Detective?”

“I’m doing what I think is right.” Kei glances at the bodies, the sharp and precise cuts across their necks, and rivers of blood that came afterwards. “Catching them.”

Ushijima gives another nod, this time of approval.

Another agent – agent Yahaba – who works on  the Cheshire case enters the room and Kei uses the distraction of his arrival to slip away. On the way out, he addresses Ushijima. “I’ll talk to the witnesses. If any.”

“Let me know if you learn something. We want to wrap this up as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

A crowd has already gathered outside, unable to stay away from the commotion any longer. Kei doesn’t want to waste time on them, but procedure is procedure no matter how tedious it can get in practice. He goes from person to person, as patient and professional as he can be while running on emotion and late-afternoon coffee that has already been washed out of his system. He asks if they've seen something, heard something, but he gets as much cooperation as he has expected: lazy shrugs, scared shakes of head and curious counter-questions he doesn’t dignify with an answer.

Ten minutes of this and he retreats to his motorcycle where the buzz of conversation and gossip has been brought down to a minimum.

Allowing weariness to seep into his bones, he rests his back against the brick wall, pulling his right foot up to hold himself in place. He reaches for a crumpled pack of cigarettes in the inside pocket of his jacket and slips one cigarette between his lips. He holds it there and gives the tip a few licks, but before he can light it up a man in a black hoodie and tantalizingly flattering sweatpants approaches him and leans against the wall. His dark, intent eyes are on Kei’s face and Kei holds his gaze. That is until his hand reaches out for the cigarette dangling from Kei’s mouth and Kei’s eyes follow.

Kuroo Tetsurou and his devilish, slender fingers are so close to Kei’s face that he can smell the blood and danger lingering on his skin. Kei’s lips part just a crack and it’s enough for Kuroo to take the cigarette and store it between his lips. It’s a kiss that never happened and Kei hates the thought of it the moment he allows himself to linger on it.

“How bold of you,” Kei commends in a dry tone. It only widens the grin on Kuroo’s face as he pulls out a black lighter with an image of Death ominously staring back at him with his small, black eyes. A hypocritical gift if Kei has ever given one.

Kuroo doesn’t speak until he lights the cigarette up and sends a trail of pale smoke to his right and away from Kei. “I’m pretty sure you don’t have the evidence to arrest me.” The way he speaks didn’t change, confident and syrupy and just seductive enough that Kei momentarily forgets where he is and what he’s here for. He unwillingly flinches away and knows by the way that Kuroo’s eyes crinkle that he has picked up on the self-aware way Kei holds himself.

“Not yet,” Kei says in order to distract Kuroo from the telltale signs of inability to resist temptation that his body has never learned how to control. He’s aware that he should pace his arguments better, but his mind stutters every time it gets distracted, his eyes devouring Kuroo’s mouth while his own mouth goes dry.

Kuroo must’ve noticed because he makes sure that the next drag of cigarette he takes is drawn out, all hollowed cheeks and eyelashes gently fluttering closed over his sharp cheekbones. The tip of the cigarette burns red and hot, and Kei feels as though he’s made of the same thing.

When Kuroo exhales, he says “We have the same conversation every time.”

“And you still don’t listen.” Kei almost raises his voice and then almost regrets not doing so. Kuroo doesn’t sound bored and at this point Kei’s grasping at straws in pathetic attempts to gain the upper hand. “You call yourself a _vigilante_. You’re just a murderer.”

Kei may have grasped the right straw because Kuroo’s shoulders tense and he pushes himself off the wall like the bricks burned his feet.

“I will listen when people like _him_ —“he snarls in the direction of the murder scene “—stop getting away with murder and worse. The system doesn’t work anymore.”

_This_  Kei can work with. “That’s because people like you break it,” he says. “The system is only as good as the people who uphold it.”

“You will understand one day.” Kuroo flicks the cigarette on the ground and crushes it under his boot, like he’s trying to crush the weight on his shoulders as well. Kei would know something about that weight. And yet he finds himself further provoking Kuroo in some twisted desire to wring out the worst of him just to make pursuing him easier.

“Never.” Kei pushes the word out like poison.

Kuroo leans in, not close enough to jeopardize Kei’s carefully enclosed personal space but close enough that Kei can smell the cigarette in his breath.

“Even the moon has a dark side.”

“Not if you keep facing the right way.”

“Fair enough.” Kuroo gifts him one of his easy, reassuring smirks that still work their way under Kei’s skin with ease. “I bid you farewell, Kei dearest.” With that, he turns on his heels.

“I’ll catch you next time,” Kei promises, fist clenches for demonstrative purposes even though Kuroo is already walking away, hands in his pockets.

“You can try. You know how much I love dancing with you.”

Kei stays where he is for a minute or few, burning hot from head to toe. He doesn’t notice his fist is clenched until his nails dig into his palm and remind him how exhausted he is and that he’d rather take a 3-week-long vacation than deal with the press tomorrow morning. With a heavy sigh, he strolls back to the murder scene. After giving an unsatisfactory report to Ushijima, he heads home in a sourer mood than when he first got here.

Though it’s been a month, Kei is still not used to opening the doors to his apartment only to be greeted by deafening silence. Every room aches empty and dark and, sometimes, when Kei’s tired and lonely, he sees blurry ghosts of the past standing there with him, replaying the best moments of his life.

Kei takes a shower where Kuroo used to stand and kiss the spot between his shoulders, and then down his spine. He brushes his teeth in front of the mirror where Kuroo and he kicked each other’s shins, each trying to finish their evening rituals before the other. He drinks a glass of water in the kitchen where Kuroo kissed him good morning because his mouth had nothing better to do while he was waiting for his morning coffee to brew. He throws his clothes on the chair where Kuroo’s belts used to hang, one of which was Kei’s guilty favorite. He lies down in a bed where Kuroo used to wake up with him, usually with a hand inside Kei’s shirt and sun caressing his face.

Kei’s acutely aware to which extent Kuroo is a wound in him that refuses to heal. His body aches, his mind resists and his heart refuses to choose.

It has proven a daunting task to be a detective who’s dedicated his life to bringing criminals to justice when Kuroo is an ex-lover who has taken it upon himself to kill criminals in the name of that very justice.

_Same difference_ , Kuroo has once said. Kei couldn’t agree, so he couldn’t stay either.

 

**2.**

After fighting his way through reporters swarming outside the building, Kei enters his team’s office, immediately stalking for the coffee machine with but a few perfunctory nods in the general direction of a janitor and the cleaning lady. Wired on thoughts of Kuroo, he got about three winks of sleep last night. That is enough to get him through the day in one piece but not without chugging down approximately five cups of coffee first.

While he’s waiting for the water to boil, he hears a harrumph behind him. He turns and in the doorway of the lounge room stands Masakawa, a journalist who doubles as a liaison with the general public. Alongside himself, Reiko and Yahaba, Masakawa is a handpicked member of the team recognized for his trustworthiness. He has proven to value truth over gossip and that quality is hard to find nowadays in the sea of drama-ravenous sharks.

“How’s your son doing in the Major League?” Kei inquires, still too groggy to talk about murder. Small talk is only ever relevant when one is half-paying attention.

Masakawa gives him one of his sheepish smiles and enters the room. “He’s is fine. He’s got big shoes to fill, though.”

Unable to disagree, Kei says, “I’m sure he’ll do just fine.”

“Thank you, Detective.”

Masakawa doesn’t say anything else, allowing Kei to prepare his coffee. Kei is grateful for the tact. Once his cup is filled to the brim with tempting aroma of morning coffee, he grabs a handful of sugar packets and motions for Masakawa to follow him to his desk. On his desk is a sizable stack of files, some sorted, others still waiting to be sorted. The one on top is labeled “The Cheshire”. It must be last night’s report from Reiko and Yahaba. Kei flips through the file and frowns. Nothing in it holds his interest.

“Any new information?” Masakawa asks as he takes a seat across from Kei, straightening his suit in the process.

Kei takes a small sip of coffee and welcomes the bitterness offending his tongue. He tears another sugar packet open and pours it in the cup. Only then does he reply, “No. The Cheshire was spotless as usual.”

Masakawa pulls out his notebook and scratches behind his ear with the pen. “That means I will also report the usual.”

“Yes. I’m sorry we don’t have anything new.” Kei’s eyes dart towards the board next to his desk, the board which outlines all of Cheshire’s known murders and their locations, each connected with a red string. The entire thing is completely pointless because Kei knows who The Cheshire is and the way he operates. Every criminal he has executed is just a distraction until he finds the one he’s looking for – The Chemist. In order to peel his thoughts away from the board, Kei inquires, “Don’t you get tired of reporting about serial killers?”

Masakawa shrugs, his lips cracking into another weak smile. “A job is a job. There’s never a shortage of serial killers, sadly. Does that mean you consider The Cheshire a serial killer...?”

This piques Kei’s interest. Masakawa is always quick to label and persecute serial killers, after all he’s been covering the story of The Chemist long before Kei has joined the unit, but he doesn’t seem too eager to catch Cheshire and not in the slightest disappointed that no incriminating information has been gathered.

“You don’t?” Kei asks. 

Masakawa tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. Kei notices that he has given his unruly brown hair a little trim since his last visit yet it still doesn’t quite obey his command. “The number of people who consider him a hero is growing.”

Kei scoffs. Of course the public considers him a hero when they don’t have to clean up after him. They don’t have to miss him. “What you’re saying is that when we catch The Cheshire,  _we_  will be the villains,” Kei muses. He glides his index finger in circles around the rim of his cup and Masakawa’s eyes follow the movement as if it’s hypnotizing.

“Though I can understand Cheshire,” Masakawa says, “I will try my best to prevent that.”

“Thank you.”

After a polite bow, Masakawa leaves as empty handed as he’s arrived. Kei reclines in his chair and sips his coffee while he goes back to observing the board in front of him. He doesn’t have to pretend he’s pondering a piece of non-existent evidence for long because he feels a press of hard fingers giving his shoulder a light squeeze. Ushijima’s grip unlocks some of the tension in Kei and he has to fight the urge to ask his superior for a massage. But Ushijima’s hand is gone as fast as it has appeared.

“Have you seen Yahaba?” Ushijima inquires.

“No.” Aside from the vultures outside, no agents arrive this early when there’s no new case to solve. “Why?”

“I have a task for him.”

“May I help?”

“No. Don’t worry about it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kei watches Ushijima retreat to his office. He vaguely remembers Yahaba rolling his eyes at the mention of a “special new addition” and “a pain in the ass”. Perhaps the word “dog” was also a part of that conversation, but Kei doesn’t dwell on any of it. Whoever Ushijima decides to bring on the team, Kei will welcome them with open arms so long as they’re not his to deal with. Yahaba, one year his senior, seems to share his philosophy, though he’s not as successful at enforcing it.

Kei finishes his coffee and delves into paperwork which he spends frowning over for the most of his morning. When Yahaba arrives, he storms to Ushijima’s office wearing a frown and, after about fifteen minutes, leaves with a glower. Kei doesn’t ask. After a haphazard lunch, he stretches over his desk and decides to eat a proper dinner for once. He pulls out his phone.

**To: Akaashi**

_Dinner tonight?_

 

**From: Akaashi**

_Sure. When and Where?_

Kei texts him the time and place, and dedicates himself entirely to the dreaded paperwork.

 

**3.**

Kei arrives fifteen minutes late, but he doesn’t worry for a split second that he won’t find Akaashi seated in the corner of an izakaya that’s halfway between Akaashi’s apartment and Kei’s workplace. He hasn’t seen Akaashi in about a week and, when he takes a seat next to him, he notices that the bags under his dark grey eyes have worsened. He is more of a shadow of himself rather than an actual person. His black hair sticks out ominously against the pale yellow interior of the crowded izakaya yet he unwittingly draws some of the gazes his way and he returns none.

Akaashi leans in his seat, sending a wave of crisp perfume that cuts through the smell of food Kei’s way, and rests his elbow on the table. His smile flickers in time with the light overhead. “I ordered us yakisoba noodles and karaage. I hope that’s fine.”

Kei's stomach growls so enthusiastically that it can almost be heard over the buzz of conversation around him. “Tell me there’s beer too.”

“Who do you think I am?” Then, Akaashi’s playful smile drops. “I saw the news. Are you any closer to...?”

Kei shakes his head. “But he approached me last night.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing he didn't already make clear when we split up.”

Akaashi runs his hand through his hair, rendering it a complete mess. His cool and composed facade shatters. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry any of this had to happen.”

“It’s not your fault,” Kei says, firmly. He places his hand over Akaashi’s and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “None of this is our fault. It’s all on The Chemist. And we _will_ catch them.”

The angle from which Akaashi looks at him allows for a speck of ugly light to gleam in his eyes, the kind of light that used to be pretty and hopeful when he played football in the major league alongside Bokuto Koutarou, his teammate, his friend, his lover. That light disappeared when The Chemist, a serial killer who targets successful sports figures, ended Bokuto’s life. And when Bokuto left, he took a piece of Kuroo as well; a piece that believed. Both Kei and Akaashi lost their loved ones that day.

Communicating what cannot be expressed in words with gentle hand-holding, they wait. And when their food arrives, they eat in silence.

 

**4.**

Up until the moment he crossed the threshold of his apartment, Kei daydreamed of a warm bath and a dull movie to put him to sleep but all that is thrown out of the window when he finds Kuroo bleeding all over his kitchen table.

Kuroo flashes one of his apologetic grins and, before Kei even manages to find his mouth to speak, says, “My usual go-to doctor is on vacation.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to title this chapter: _Ha, You Thought Kuroo was a Hot Mess, May I Introduce You to Kei_. But it was too long.

“And you can’t visit another one?” Kei says, punctuating the question with a drop of his keys on the coffee table in the adjacent living room. He tries not to think about how, one, he eats at that table, and, two, he should’ve asked Kuroo to return the keys to his apartment.

“I  _may_  have some compromising criminal DNA on me.”

Kei should send him away. He really should. Instead, he orders him to wait there and heads for the medicine cabinet in his bathroom where he takes out the first aid kit along with some paper towels. He pulls up a chair next to Kuroo and throws the paper towels in his lap.“Wipe the table with your good hand,” Kei orders.

“Yes, sir.”

Kuroo begins wiping the table which gives Kei enough peace to take Kuroo’s left hand and carefully pull his sleeve up. Kuroo winces but keeps his hand firmly in place. What Kei finds under Kuroo’s sleeve are a couple of cuts scattered at awkward angles alongside Kuroo’s forearm, as though he was trying to defend himself from an agitated knife-wielder.

“Did you even check how bad the wound was?” Kei asks because the wounds are nowhere near life-threatening. Sure, they will sting a little and take some time to heal but there is no need for professional intervention.  

“No. All I know is that it hurts like hell.”

“You big baby.”

“Hey now. Remember that time I stubbed my toe and you pampered me the entire afternoon to calm me down? You know I can’t handle pain.”

Kei’s hand stops moving as million retorts flood his mind, the most prominent one being “ _you’re in the wrong line of business then_ ”. But he doesn’t say it because he knows what Kuroo is trying to accomplish and Kei can’t let him. “Don’t do that,” he warns, now back to cleaning Kuroo’s wounds. “Do I want to know what you were doing?”

“Well. I was gathering information and I may have drawn some unwanted attention to myself.”

“You’ll get yourself killed one day.”

“No,” Kuroo says, certain. Then, with a change of expression, he shrugs. “Not yet at least.”

Keeping the gruesome thoughts out of his head, Kei cleans Kuroo’s cuts and applies bandages. He finishes only seconds after Kuroo has finished cleaning the mess he’s made.

“Thank you,” Kuroo says, a sincere smile coating his lips.

“Thank compulsory medical training. And you could’ve done this yourself.”

Kuroo laughs and Kei can’t help but let a sudden burst of frustration control his hands as he tosses the first aid supplies back into their box. Then, with a sigh, pulls them all out and begins to arrange them in a more orderly manner. Kuroo doesn’t say a word but he must know why this is such a sore topic for Kei so he doesn’t pry. And that’s the thing. None of Kuroo’s kindness or understanding or softness was gone. They merely ended up squashed between layers and layers of anger, hurt and lust for revenge.

“Now onto the real reason I’m here,” Kuroo announces as though he thinks the silence between them has dragged beyond polite. “I have good news.”

“Is that so? Can they wait until I shower?”

“Sure.”

Showering is just an excuse to put some distance from the volatile mood he’s in when he’s alone with Kuroo. His feet and hands are cold but he’s burning everywhere else, sore and aching where he hasn’t been touched in weeks. He discards the heavy things, his clothes and his badge, on the top of the washing machine and douses his skin in cold water hoping it would ease him out of the fever that is Kuroo.

The cold water does nothing and Kei leaves the bathroom in a baggy shirt and boxers. He finds that the doors of the balcony are open and that Kuroo is leaning on the railing, thin wisps of smoke drawing trails from his lips into the night. Kei steps out.

He steals Kuroo’s cigarette, partly as revenge and partly for that skewed look in Kuroo’s eyes, and puts it between his lips. “You were supposed to quit.”

“So were you.” Kuroo waits until Kei takes a drag and then steals the cigarette back. “You rearranged some things in the apartment.”

“Some.” The coffee table is in front of the couch since there’s no danger of it getting kicked again. The books on the bookshelf have been rearranged, first by color and then by the alphabet, and neither could fill in the gaps of the missing books in a satisfactory manner.

Kei looks away from Kuroo’s face and focuses on the cityscape laying itself bare before them. The night is made of bright lights baring their neon teeth as if they would bite his hand off if he as much as held out his hand. He lays his offers his palm fearlessly, the wind brushing his fingers tenderly.

“Is reminding me of what I’ve been missing a part of your visit?” Kei asks.

Kuroo’s grin is impish, tempting. “So you  _do_  miss me.”

An image of his badge flashes before his eyes and in that moment Kei knows who he is and what’s right. In the next moment, he’s jumping on Kuroo like a wolf driven out of his mind by staring at sheep, mouth seeking neck.

Kuroo is as good as he remembers.

Better.

His fingers toy with spiky, stray hairs at the back of Kuroo’s neck. His neck tastes of sweat. A bit of blood too. His breath tickles Kei’s ear like an air guitar out of tune. Kei tugs at his hair, pulling his head back so he can have a taste of those infuriating lips—

—But Kuroo abruptly pulls away, leaving Kei wanting like a match that is not yet ready to be put out. His thumb caresses the damp surface of Kei’s cheek. He says, “Maybe we shouldn’t.”

“Maybe.” Kei pulls away, breath heavy, and puts enough distance between them that another person could comfortably stand there in the awkwardness and feel it too. He asks, impatient and embarrassed: “So, your good news?”

“I think I know who Bokuto’s murderer is...” Kuroo hesitates, so unlike him that is rouses Kei’s suspicion. He’s already recovered from the momentary slip up. Kei can't say the same. 

“But...?

“We have to catch them red-handed or else we’ll have no proof.”

“Let me guess, you have a plan?”

Kuroo grins. “We will create a scenario that will force them to act.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“You’ll like it even less when I tell you about it.”

 

**5.**

If Kei wasn’t against the plan when he first heard it, he is definitely against it now that they’ve arrived at the place of its execution. For one, the plan involves Akaashi, who has clearly been trying his best to move on from this entire mess. For two, the plan is, at best, a shot in the dark. Sure, Kuroo has provided some sound reasoning but that’s something he does well with less at stake.

“Hi,” Kuroo greets, gently smoothing his hands around Akaashi’s back as he pulls him in for a hug. They stay like that for a while.

“What have you been doing, Tetsu?”

“The same as you have,” Kuroo whispers. “What I feel like I have to.”

Akaashi lets go, expression perfectly molded so as not to show any emotion, and steps aside. “Come on in.”

Any notion of Akaashi ever moving on goes straight out the window at the sight of his apartment. The last time Kei has been here, the place was a mess before but now it’s a ruin illuminated only by the dying sunlight pouring in through dirty windows. One could never tell by looking at Akaashi and his pristine outfit and attitude that his heart is like this; clothes laying on the floor alongside newspaper clips, printed internet articles and takeaway containers.

Kuroo’s eyes say what his mouth doesn’t; the remorse in them cannot be expressed in words. He reaches for Akaashi and ruffles his hair like he used to back when they were in high-school, as four, happy.

“How about we help you clean up while we walk you through our plan?”

“You and cleaning? You truly have changed.”

Kuroo grins, albeit not too convincing. “I’ve been reformed in the worst possible way.”

And so they clean and explain the details to Akaashi. First they do the dishes, then trash, then dust, then windows. By the time they had finished, dusk has transformed into night with stars haphazardly strewn across indigo skies. They could see them clearly now.

The plan involved a copious amount of lies and acting and, on any other day and for any other purpose, Akaashi would’ve refused. But this time, just this once, he says: “Are you sure about this?”

“Ninety-five percent sure,” Kuroo admits, wiping the sweat beads gathering on his forehead and dampening the rebellious strands of his black hair.

“What about the other five percent?”

“I like to leave some space for surprises.”

 

**6.**

Kei and Kuroo wait in the closet, pressed closely together, with a football ball threatening to trip them at the smallest wrong move and various appliances poking at their back. All of it is easy to ignore. Kuroo keeps his hand busy with Kei’s phone, camera ready and set to go. The view from the closet covers only the living room’s table and couch but that is more than enough.

The doorbell rings at half past nine and Akaashi opens the doors to his home with a resolve in his step. Kei hears a polite greeting and a shake of hands before Akaashi steps into the living room with Masakawa and offers him a seat. Akaashi sits down, his finest poker face at work, and offers a seat to Masakawa as well. 

“Your return to the League is major news,” Masawaka says, smiling. “No pun intended. Thank you for choosing me to cover your story.”

“You have always been a loyal friend,” Akaashi says, voice steady.

Masakawa pulls out a pen and a notepad out of his long, worn coat. “May I ask, why now?”

Akaashi shrugs, expression assembled into a perfect image of serenity. “I realized I have given up Bokuto’s spot too easily, as a partner.”

Masakawa jots it down. Obviously he’s bought the story, or has started to. Akaashi clears his throat and reaches for a glass of water on the living room table.

He puts the glass down and sits up in his seat. “How awfully rude of me. May I offer you a glass of water or tea?”

Masakawa waves his hand in dismissal of Akaashi’s lack of manners. “Tea will be fine, thank you.”

Akaashi heads for the kitchen leaving Masakawa alone in the living room. Kuroo stirs by Kei’s side and Kei can all but feel the tension seeping out of his body and dominating the air inside the tight space of the closet.

Masakawa’s eyes glaze around the apartment, visible surprise on his face at how orderly the place is. Then he tilts his head towards the kitchen, perhaps an attempt to check in on Akaashi.

That’s when he reaches into his coat and comes up with a vial of translucent liquid. He gives it a light shake and uncaps it, then pours its contents into Akaashi’s glass. The water inside it remains untouched, as clear as if it wasn't tampered with. Kuroo’s fingers dig into Kei’s thigh, pure anger sending pain down his leg. Kei lets him do it; it keeps him calm, eyes set forward.

Masakawa sits back and pretends as though he’s been still the whole time.

Painful minutes of unrest later, Akaashi returns with a cup of steaming tea.

“Thank you,” says Masakawa and takes the cup in his hands immediately, going for that first sip. “So, shall we start with the interview?”

Kei hears the click when Kuroo stops filming.

“Kei, go,” Kuroo says and slides the phone into Kei’s pocket.

Kei busts out of the closet, making sure he closes the doors behind him so that Kuroo isn’t seen. He pulls out his gun and is met with Masakawa’s astonished face.

“Tsukishima?!”

“Hands in the air where I can see them.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

Masakawa scoffs but does as he’s told and, though he’s clearly quietly resisting, Kei manages to cuff him without much trouble.

“Whatever you think you figured out, you’re wrong.”

“We’ll see about that,” Kei says and secures Akaashi’s water glass as evidence. “Akaashi, I’ll be back in a minute.” Akaashi nods where he sits, unmoving.

Kei leads to his car which he has parked behind the building so it wouldn’t be seen. With each step, he feels tension in Masakawa grow, as though an admittance of guilt, but he doesn’t speak a word, exercising his right to remain silent like he’s seen many criminals do. Kei shoves him in the backseat without any pretense of politeness left in him. He disposes the glass in the trunk and locks all doors, leaving the key in the lock of the trunk.

With hurried step, he heads back to Akaashi’s building where, at the very entrance, lurks a shadow. Upon seeing Kei, Kuroo pushes himself off the wall and comes chest to chest to Kei. In the pale street lights, he looks like an angel of death descending upon the city with cruel grace and Kei finds himself both terrified and mesmerized.

“It’s over,” Kei claims.

Kuroo raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”

“You’re not gonna stop.” It’s not a question.

“I didn’t realize until now that this isn’t one of those things you can just stop yourself. You have to be stopped.”

Kei nods his head, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Be careful what you wish for.”

Another one of those cheeky grins flashes on Kuroo’s face and he leans in, grasping the back of Kei’s head, and presses a cold kiss on his forehead. “Nothing I know you can’t give me.”

They part ways.

All the way upstairs, the memory of Kuroo’s lips scalds the skin he’s just kissed.

When he enters Akaashi’s apartment, Akaashi is waiting by the doors, looking as though he’s just woken from a long dream.

“How did Kuroo know?”

“Last night he came across the information that the Chemist has been dead for a while. And from there, he realized that whoever copied his M.O. would have to know him well and would benefit from Bokuto being gone and the Chemist being framed.” Kei’s stomach drops as the full realization of betrayal sinks in.

“Will this be enough to imprison him?” Akaashi inquires.

“I’m going to make sure it’s enough.” He clasps Akaashi’s shoulder in reassurance and leaves the apartment with that single promise still hot on his tongue.

He walks to his car slowly, he reckons that he’s been gone for a total of seven minutes before he reaches it again so he’s overwhelmed with both relief and dread when he sees that the car keys are now in the doors of the backseat, now wide open.

He looks inside to find Masakawa, quiet as the night, his gut open and spilling onto the once clean seats. Across his cheek is a scribble of red teeth, grinning. Next to him sits an item that wasn’t there before – a plain white card.

Kei picks it up. There, in neat handwriting:

_Thank you for leaving the keys._

Kei flips the card.

_Softie._

In spite of himself, Kei allows the faintest of smiles to linger on his lips.

After all, Kuroo is a wound that refuses to heal.

Kei’s body aches, his mind resists and his heart refuses to choose.

That is why he has to catch Kuroo.

That is why he never will.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this story the prologue. This series will contain one-shots from different character's POV but will all tie into one story. Reading them in order is not obligatory but it will make most sense. 
> 
> In the next episode, Akaashi meets somebody who appears to be playing god and the dead come back to life. 
> 
>  
> 
> Feedback much appreciated, thank you for reading! Find me @ articunoir.tumblr.com


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